


Tales from The Princess

by Ishti



Series: Rhenegade Spinoffs [5]
Category: Aveyond
Genre: Aveyond: Rhen's Quest, Friendship, Gen, Monster of the Week, One Shot Collection, Pirate AU, Rhenegade Compliant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-14
Packaged: 2020-10-18 19:17:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20644316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ishti/pseuds/Ishti
Summary: An ongoing serial about the adventures of beloved seafaring rogues Skip Townsley and Winch Headbutt.





	Tales from The Princess

“Fifty gold on the grinnin’ blindfolded broad!”

“Heard, heard--thank you, sir; last call; last call before the fight!”

“Seventy on the Boar!”

“Thank you!”

“Two hunnerd on the Boar! She’s got too many teeth, gonna get kicked right in--”

“A confident bet is always a winning bet, my friend. Thank you!”

Rhen licked her teeth for show, and the basement crowd roared. John caught it in the corner of his eye and chuckled under his breath.

“All right, now… one girl, one sword, one blindfold. One Boar. Interesting enough for you?”

The crowd roared again, some of them pounding their fists on the wooden platform supporting Rhen. Their volume increased as the Boar, a man nearly seven feet tall and wide as a shiny, muscular outhouse, hoisted and flipped himself onto the stage. He was unarmed, but with his fists tightly wrapped and his bald head estimable at the density of a cannonball, he was easily an intimidating match for any organic being with breakable parts. As the candles flickered in the rum-addled air, wavering in the heat of the Boar’s growls, seedy bar patrons howled and whooped for blood.

Rhen cocked her head.  _ Should I take him off-handed? _

John didn’t look up as he counted the cash bets he’d been handed, five coins at a time. “Let’s see if this cute little woodland creature can live up to your wildest expectations. Fighters, on your marks. Get set.  _ Brrrrrrawl!” _

With a lunge and a skid, Rhen dodged under the Boar’s inevitable leap and slashed at his thigh with her rapier. He growled and, with surprising swiftness, turned to deliver a punch that she took on her face. Something sharp grazed her cheek, and she felt blood well quickly to the surface--his handwraps must have been spiked without John’s knowledge.  _ Fine. _ She would finish this fight anyway.

The Boar came in hot with a left hook. Using the momentum of his own swing against him, Rhen slammed the hilt of her sword into his fist and took a desperate but calculated stab at his palm as the blow met his own cheek. He howled as the blade pierced through his hand, the wail rising to a shriek as he tried to pull his hand away and found that the barbs of his own handwraps had lodged thoroughly into his face. The crowd screamed as Rhen cocked her shoulder sassily, waiting for his next move.

With a snarl, the Boar snatched at Rhen’s blade. Ten seconds later, his right hand found itself in much the same position as his left, the Boar sobbing for mercy on his knees. There was a little blood on Rhen’s blindfold.

“The grinning broad has it!” hollered John through the roar of the crowd. “An underdog not to sniff at, lardies and gentlemops! Now--are we to end the show and drag our buttocks home one by one, or double the stakes and double the takes?”

Rhen rolled out her shoulders and waited for the wooden chair to slide up behind her. The hands of her current crewmates--Wallace and Bailey, she was pretty certain--helped her sit up flush against the back of the chair before binding her wrists tight to its arms and her ankles to its legs. Around the stage, the shocked murmur of the crowd built into an enthusiastic clamor once more. Gold, yanked from pockets, jingled merrily.

John was likely smirking with narrow cat-eyes, as he did. “Allow me now to introduce our next challenger-- _ Jacob the Just!” _

By his step, Jacob was an experienced combatant and an inexperienced performer with a slow and heavy cadence and an artificially confident swagger. Rhen recalled him from the Sedonan training yards, although she didn’t hear the clank of armor to which she grew accustomed in the field. That would’ve been against the basement brawling rule, of course. Rhen’s tiny smile grew almost soft as she wondered what he was doing here and whether he was ready for the beating he was about to receive.

She heard him draw his weapon, but the familiar  _ shink _ of blade against sheath was absent. He must have opted for a less traditional weapon.  _ Jacob the Just _ \--perhaps a mallet. There was a loud, dull  _ thud _ against the wood of the platform. The crowd grew quiet, and Rhen heard Jacob clear his throat.

“I won’t use a weapon against a bound opponent.”

Dozens of voices rose in derision around the stage, booing and jeering. Rhen rolled her eyes behind her blindfold.  _ Let John do the judgment here, jackleg. _

“Hush, hush!” called John, addressing the masses. “The prosecutor has his own methods of interrogation. Let’s watch and we might learn a thing or two of cruelty and submission.”

_ You ham. _

The crowd’s heckles returned to standard cries for blood, and Rhen flexed her toes impatiently. Jacob cracked his knuckles for show, then his neck. He was new, he was arrogant, but he was nervous. Rhen decided she would go easy on him.

She let the first blow connect, her jaw cracking with a satisfying  _ snap _ in her ear. She straightened back out in the chair and gave Jacob a cheeky grin before weathering the second punch. A foot to the chest slammed her to the ground, rattling her skull and knocking the breath from her lungs. To her absolute delight, she heard at least ten distinct voices hollering for her to get up.

_ If you insist. _

Rhen smelled the bottom of Jacob’s foot coming down flat for her shoulder, and she jerked her body just enough so his heel met the wood between the back and the arm of the chair with a powerful  _ crunch. _ She felt him hesitate and let her body go slack--he’d go for her leg next; he wouldn’t touch the top of the chair again.

He grabbed her leg, irrationally bracing himself against a kick. She pulled her weight in, catching him off-guard. The chair leg snapped. She kicked.

Jacob yelped, staggering back, holding his nose. Blood trickled between his fingers. Rhen kicked free the loose rope and broken chair leg, her foot finding the floor. The crowd was halfway to rioting, shrieking for her to stand up. She wriggled her elbow near the splintering arm of the chair, working the rope apart as quickly as she could. Jacob was coming back, and he was  _ pissed, _ and she couldn’t hear him raise his fist, but she took a deep breath, braced herself against the floor, and swung all of her weight into the chair, and with a tremendous  _ smash, _ it collided with Jacob’s body. The chair fractured and fell away, leaving Rhen with nothing but rope and slivers of wood tied to her arms and legs.

Rhen couldn’t hear a damn thing over the crowd any longer; she’d have to rely on what she could feel through her two feet. Luckily, she was once more standing on those two feet. She graciously gave Jacob a moment to brush off the shock of the splinters--she needed a moment, too, winded and disoriented as she was--before drawing her sword. She swiped for him, but he ducked beneath her swing, snatching his mace from the ground where he’d dropped it. Rhen’s rapier clashed uselessly against the mace, bending like birch in the snow. He slammed into her shoulder, sending her reeling to the right.

That didn’t stop her--gritting her teeth, she dropped and rolled while the mace carried itself forward. With a surprised grunt, Jacob lost his grip on the mace and sent it careening-- _ crunch _ \--into the wall of the basement. The mob crowed with laughter. Jacob didn’t have time to fetch his weapon as Rhen bounced back to her full height and slashed at his arm. He dodged and spun, which she didn’t expect, pressing against her as if performing a ballroom dance, and twisted the rapier from her hand, disarming her.

Rhen drove her knee into Jacob’s tailbone and broke away. His sword-arm, holding her rapier, left him wide open. She jabbed low at his ribs with her fist, making him flinch, before pushing him forward towards the edge of the stage, taunting the screaming faces and outstretched hands below. He teetered there, suddenly unstable, before Rhen grabbed the ponytail dangling between his shoulders and yanked him to the ground.

Jacob’s head slammed to the floor with a satisfying  _ thud. _ Rhen kicked his cheek with her boot and pressed her foot into his face for good measure. She felt the vibration when he groaned, but he didn’t try to get up.

The audience shrieked like wild macaques. Rhen heard the grin in John’s voice as he spoke. “Give it up for your indigo ingenue, the underdog of the evening, our one and only  _ Violet Vengeance!” _

Rhen pulled the blindfold from her eyes, letting the smile wash over her from scalp to toes. This was a hell of a feeling.

John tugged a notebook from his jacket. “Now, I shall allow you to leave with whatever coin you saw fit to appropriate in the most opportune tracks; please form a line… ah, perhaps three lines; my assistants here and here will be happy to reallocate whatever you are still entitled….”

Jacob moaned quietly. Hair strayed from his brown ponytail to stick in the sweat on his face. Rhen shook her head a little, reminding herself that she’d just humiliated the poor man. She offered a hand to help him up. “Good fight, Jakes,” she said, still smiling. “You put on such a show!”

“You think so?” Jacob coughed. Blood still slowly dripped from his nose as he stood.

“Yes! I like your character. I think it’s quite a villainous choice in these tavern basement settings, you know; you’ll probably get beaten a lot.”

“Do you think people will enjoy that?”

Rhen patted Jacob gently on the back. “Every story needs a villain, and folks love a story.”

Jacob beamed through the blood drying on his face. “Great.”

Rhen wiped the blood from her own face as she fetched her rapier. There was still a throng around the stage, so Rhen made her way around the side closest to the wall and hopped down as far away from the pack as she could.

“My money was on the chair.”

Rhen glanced up at the sound of the gentle brogue. A man, perhaps a year or two older than John and twice as scarred, grinned at her from five and a half feet up. He was lightly tanned and close-shaven, with a wide smile and wide eyes to match. On his hip he wore a saber with a finely-wrought hilt.

He continued grinning. Rhen smiled politely. “Do I know you?”

“Does anybody truly know anyone?” With a faux solemn expression, he put a hand to his chest and rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “No, unfortunately, we haven’t yet been introduced, but we will be in about forty-five seconds. What a  _ fight, _ lass. Who taught you to do that?”

“It was a group effort.” Rhen crossed her arms, her smile frozen on her face.

“Takes a village, then? I remember being that young and learning from my own mentors. Seemed the whole crew had to get a whale in before I could hold my own against a hayseed in a holmgang. Doesn’t come naturally to everyone.”

Rhen sniffed. “Guess not.”

The unscarred corner of the man’s mouth rose into an angled smile. “Your crew did a magnificent job on your behalf, champ.”

“I wouldn’t be here without them. Wouldn’t be anywhere without them at all.”

“Don’t be too much a self-defeatist, hey? Give yourself some credit.”

Annoyance flared in Rhen’s gut. She opened her mouth to remind him that he didn’t know a thing about what she’d lived through, but before she could speak--

“ANNIE!”

Rhen and the stranger both turned on their heels at the sound of John’s holler. He hoisted himself over the side of the stage and trotted towards them. Confused, Rhen hesitated, but the stranger was on the stage in an instant, greeting John in a merry embrace.

“It’s been too long, Johnny. Too long.”

After the requisite amount of back-patting and manly laughter, John glanced over the stranger’s shoulder and waved for Rhen to join them on the stage. “C’mon, vi! Come up here! This is an old friend of mine, Ansom McCrae.”

Ansom turned to wink at Rhen. “Crewmates, Johnny. You want to call me a friend--I’m still sour over that thing with the--”

“--with the alpacas, yeah, and the--!” John burst into laughter, Ansom a second behind. Rhen paused before jumping onto the stage, suppressing a scowl.

“Fancy crossing paths with you and a life-sized flower sprite in this old backwater of a shanty village!” Ansom rubbed a hand down the back of his head. “I suppose it was bound to happen one day or another. Knew you’d never give up the ropes.”

“Well, I’m actually a teacher now,” boasted John. “Just taking a sabbatical because this one wants me to help her find Elemetta’s Grotto.”

Ansom whistled. “Elemetta’s Grotto? That’s not exactly a light undertaking, lass.”

“No.”  _ I don’t do light undertakings. _ “It’s not.”

“What’s your name?”

“Rhen.”

“Oh, songbird out to sea. Captain Johnny will get you where you’re going.”

“She’s the captain, actually!” John interjected, his voice just bright enough. “I’m in retirement, by royal decree.”

Ansom chuckled. “Since when do you live by  _ royal decree, _ Pirate John?”

“We’d like to break down the platform, should your busy schedule allow it,” called an impatient voice from below. Immediately and without looking to ensure that John and Ansom followed, Rhen hopped back off the stage and made for the uneven spiral staircase to the first floor bar. Perhaps she would buy Bailey a drink tonight; the elf was a riot--

“Little bird, if you please; an old man prefers the honest, open timbers of a moon-kissed vessel to the disquieting debauchery permeating the very architecture of an establishment such as this,” entreated Ansom, smooth as a seashore pebble. “Would the Captain be so kind as to grant me a span upon her ship?”

If John hadn’t looked so Goddess-damned excited, Rhen would have glared at Ansom, turned around, and walked away, never to see him again (she’d hope). Instead, she sighed in her head and said, “All right.”

  
  


Rhen’s gaff cutter was docked off the shore of Fenwater, a swampy coastal town near the Lowlands of the Western Isle. Most of the buildings here rested on a reinforced boardwalk of sorts, supported by complex stilts crisscrossing underfoot. Mesh-covered rain collectors were hooked to their sloped roofs like gently-swinging planters. Several paces ahead of John and Ansom, Rhen could feel a warm drizzle reminding the locals to take in their laundry; she savored the droplets tickling her bare arms as she breathed the heavy air.

“Six years, it’s been?” marveled Ansom behind her, resting his hand on John’s shoulder. “Without offense, you look as if you haven’t slept a wink in all that time.”

John sniffed good-naturedly. “Eh, you’re not far from the truth. So--who’ve you been with, Annie? I haven’t seen any merchant ships around Fenwater; you still sailing under the Jolly Roger?”

“As if I could tolerate the licit life.”

“Hmm… let me guess. Captain Joyce-Marie?”

“Oh, let it go, lad.” Ansom punched John’s arm, chuckling. “No, I’ve sailed under a few. Just don’t seem to be headed along quite the same course as any one confederacy.”

“Who’s surprised.” John shrugged Ansom off with a smile, his eyebrows raised to a point in the center of his forehead. “You were always rousing rabble.”

Spying the drowsing lantern and its similarly-wavering custodian stationed on the port side of the cutter, Rhen trotted forward on her toes and waved. Leslie  _ (was that her name?) _ snapped to attention and hove out the gangplank, fumbling in her confusion.

“Thanks,” said Rhen with a halfhearted smile as she boarded.

“No problem, Captain,” yawned the watch.

“Is this the lovely lady herself?” called Ansom with a whistle. “Does she have a name, songbird?”

“No, but  _ I _ do,” replied Rhen through gritted teeth.

“And you won’t be surprised by the reason why!” swept in John, all cheer. “See, Annie, just last month--”

“You’ve been crashin’ ‘em fast, haven’t you, lad,” chuckled Ansom.

“What, you won’t even let me tell the story?”

Ansom helped the watch hoist in the gangplank with remarkable ease. “I’ve known you so long, I’ve a mind to tell it for you. But your yarns never get old, so let’s have it.”

John thought for a moment. “Well, we crashed a sloop.”

“Ahh. Where?”

“Um… we don’t know.”

“Aye, right next to the ferry I docked my banana boat.”

“I can never tell how deep the layers of mockery run.”

“Nor the shoals.”

Rhen rolled her eyes and patted the watch’s shoulder. “Relieved.”

The watch nodded and handed off the lantern to Rhen, who busied herself replenishing the oil as John and Ansom prattled on. “If you want a  _ real _ story, lass--” oh, was he talking to  _ her _ now? “--how about the time we battled two naval frigates like a sodden schooner sandwich, and Johnny caught the captains up both til they couldn’t tell their arse from their elbow.”

John hopped up to sit overtop the low cabin and kicked off his boots. “You’ll like this one, vi! I like it, too. It’s flattering.”

“There we were, the Sedonan and Tyobese navies broadside our little schooner, port and starboard.” Ansom dropped into a low stance, his hands splayed. “Their loons spilling onto the deck endless, it seemed. No trouble for Captain John, though. He hollers out for the blood of the captains, waves his sword through the gullets of a few squids, and snatches a coil of rope with his free hand. We always kept spare rope on deck, see. It’s a good habit to pick up.”

Ansom winked. Rhen bit down on a scowl.

“With all the hell raised on deck, the fandans didn’t notice a loop round the wrist here or the ankle there, and then a twirl about the mast later and  _ kerplop! _ they hadn’t a notion of which limbs belonged to whom, or how the sky had grown so large about their doaty heads.”

“And the best part--”

“The best part,” Ansom cut back in, “was that their crews couldn’t stop bloody laughing long enough to save them!”

John shut his eye, reveling in the memory. “Oh, glory….”

“We forced dual surrender, took all their loot, and left them one ship with which they might decide which way to return home.”

Rhen glanced at John. It was hard to remember, sometimes, that this charming blockhead lived a long life and had, on occasion, presumably exhibited moments of brilliant captainry. He was smiling and shaking his head.

“I wasn’t captain half the time you knew me, Annie.”

“Ah, well; you know I scrapped for you many times. And anyway--it’s all in the past. I see you’ve got the best of the sea in your palm now, you jammy bastard.”

John hopped down from the cabin. “Yeah. No complaints about my situation. Definitely no complaints.”

“Elemetta’s Grotto, is it?” mused Ansom. “Doesn’t sound like a bad prospect in this economy. What put you on that venture?”

“I read a lot,” said Rhen, her voice rough from disuse.

“Bonnie  _ and _ canny! And a captain, so young. I bet you’ve stories to tell of your own.”

“I guess.”

Ansom crouched where Rhen was leaning against the railing. “Tell you what, lass: for a few stories a day, I’ll offer my services as an expert rigger and bonus watchman. Everyone can get a little more sleep that way; especially old knackered Johnny-cake here.”

“Hey.” John shifted. “I’d tell you I resent that remark, but I am pretty knackered.”

Rhen made a few calculations in her head. They were about three days out from the Deep Circle, where the Grotto was certain to be found, and probably a day or two of odd mystical occurrences after that, and then another four days allowed for the journey back to port--that was just over a week of this man. The treasure would now be split six ways (although the captain’s share would naturally remain the greatest cut)....

John was beaming.

_ Ugh, whatever. _

“Fine.” Rhen turned her face abaft. “You can sleep on the main deck.”

“Thank you, lass!” Ansom hummed, cheerful as could be. “You won’t regret it. John and I make quite the tag team on the open ocean. I’ll even make breakfast in the mornin’!”

She ignored him. “Sixth watch in four hours, John. Get some sleep.”

“Aye!” John stood forward and patted Ansom heartily on the back. “C’mon, Annie; I’ll show you where all the stuff is.”

The two men adjourned to the lower deck, leaving Rhen to glare out across the quiet docks. She wiped sweat from above her lip.  _ John had better be right about this louse. _

  
  


John yawned as he and Rhen strolled down the boardwalk early the next morning, headed for the market pier. A shopping list stuck out of John’s pocket detailing everything they’d need from the chandler and how they could con the prices from exorbitant to minimal. First, however, they were headed for the fish and produce, because all the best produce and finest catch of the day could be found, as John put it, “at the hour of the sun god’s ass-crack”.

As they rounded the corner toward the marketplace, John bumped Rhen’s shoulder with his arm. “Be careful out here,” he said, his voice as low as he could keep it. “I know I already warned you about Fenwater, but the town guards are seriously feral in this swamp.”

Rhen grimaced; already, four officers stationed at the start of the pier had eyed them as they walked past. “They can’t be  _ that _ bad, right? I mean--worse than Sedona?”

“They’re that bad. The market’s laced like a corset. You heard them arrest that woman last night at the wharf, too.”

Hiding her shudder, Rhen scanned the pier for more guards. “What did she even do?”

“Left out food for the shipyard cats, I think. Big no-no out here.” John sighed. “I remember breaking a guy out of the Fenwater clink one time. His crime? He got sloshed, broke into the church, and rang the bell.”

_ “Seriously?” _

“Yeah. The belltower is grim business here, apparently.”

They rounded another bend in the busy market pier and stopped in front of the farthest fisherman’s stand. The smell of low-grade catfish and pickling eel blew across Rhen’s face in the hot, heavy swamp breeze. She wrinkled her nose and sidled behind John, using his body to shield her from the foul wind.

“Can’t we just get fishing nets and take care of this ourselves?”

“We don’t have room for that,” replied John, holding up a fish to thumb its gills. “Our poor little boat’ll tip right over if we load her with fish.”

“It was no trouble taking on an extra hand, though, was it,” grumbled Rhen.

“Ansom knows what he’s doing! It’s safer to have less underfoot right now.”

Rhen sighed sharply through her nose.  _ She _ was the captain. Suddenly it seemed he was talking to her as if he’d forgotten that fact.

“I  _ also _ know what I’m doing, John,” she reminded him, her voice biting. “I’m the captain. And I say we had enough hands.”

“Then why did you take him on?” asked John.

Rhen just glowered at him.

“You have the final say; you  _ are _ the captain, vi,” he pressed. “Did you forget that?”

A hot, fishy breeze rushed through Rhen’s personal space, nearly knocking her off her feet with its sudden, oppressive stench. She didn’t give herself enough time to set her mind back in order before snapping, “It’s still your responsibility to have good judgment, and not to let any friendly old face walk all over you and yours!”

John jerked his head as if slapped. “Right. Right, that’s right. You mean… like I did with you? Twice?”

“Wh--you--you take that  _ back! _ You had  _ every _ reason to trust me!”

“How many times did you almost get me killed, again? And should I count double the one time you succeeded?”

“Hey!” barked the fisherman behind the stand, knuckles white from gripping the wood. “Buy something or leave! Don’t stand there scaring off the real customers!”

“Our apologies, sir,” said John, “but apparently, I mustn’t purchase so much as a single smelt without the captain’s inspection.”

With a wordless scream, Rhen turned on her heel and stormed away from the fish stand. John could buy the damn fish; they’d stink up the stupid little boat and everyone aboard would be the worse for how cramped it was. At least they’d have their slowly-rotting meals!

She brushed past patrons of the produce vendors without glancing at them as they sifted through the water chestnuts and cranberries. Bumping her elbow against the frame of a stall, she dislodged a precarious lotus display. The roots and seeds tumbled to the ground, pinned by packets of lotus flour. The farmer began hollering at her in a language she didn’t understand as she ignored her transgression and pushed on, nearly slipping on a sodden leaf of watercress.

Rhen hugged herself around the chest. Fighting with John like that felt so  _ wrong, _ so awful. They didn’t say stuff like that to each other! Those sorts of fights were for other idiots. Ansom’s stodgy scone and lukewarm bean breakfast churned in her distraught stomach.

The long, narrow market boardwalk converged with the docks and the mangrove-shaded town at the next bend. Rhen slowed down, feeling for the first time the solid ground under the damp wood beneath her boots. She paused for a second and let the tension slowly, sadly leave her shoulders; then, she made for the cutter, its hull dipping gently in and out of the water.

Wallace and Leslie had the morning off, leaving Bailey and Ansom to mind the ship together. Rhen figured this would be an adequate first test of Ansom’s abilities as well as his commitment to the crew. Bailey was there to supervise him, so he couldn’t get away with anything  _ horribly _ disruptive.

Rhen rattled her head.  _ What shall I say to them when I return without John? Perhaps that we couldn’t recall whether we needed more limes or more oranges? Or perhaps that we came up ten gold short and I ran back to take some from the ship’s safe? That’ll do. _

Bailey nodded to her as she trotted up the gangplank. “Is John all right, Cap’n?” they asked.

“John’s fine; forgot the oranges.” Rhen cleared her throat hurriedly. “Don’t--don’t worry about it.”

“Um… aye aye, Captain.” Bailey scratched their head, pushing back long, straight hair, and Rhen noticed a fresh gash down their arm, bleeding slowly.

“You’re bleeding!”

“Oh. I know. Ansom went belowdecks to find the bandages.”

Bailey smiled, and Rhen, torn between relief and frustration, nodded them at ease and stalked away. Great! Ansom was taking care of the crew. Ansom was a good guy. Ansom was all in.  _ Whatever. _

Rhen took a deep breath at the cabin door. She decided she would go inside, shut the door for a moment, wait for Ansom to leave, process her emotions in whatever way they demanded processing, and go back to the market to find John. It was sweltering outside, so maybe she would press a bar of soap to her armpits, as well. She opened the door.

Ansom McCrae knelt on the floor with one hook pick, one torsion wrench, an open padlock, an empty safe, and a bulging sack of bar fight winnings which jingled in his arms as he tied it shut.

He turned to look at her. She felt her eyebrows snap down like axeblades.

_ “You forsworn, swivel-tongued, faithless DOG!” _

Without bothering to address her in kind, Ansom sprung up from the crime scene and, taking Rhen by surprise, rushed her to barrel through the door. Rhen was knocked sideways before she could react, whacking her head on the doorframe. She whipped out her rapier as she blinked the stars from her eyes, but in the second it took to clear her vision, Ansom had already booked it toward the gangplank.

“Ansom--?!” yelled Bailey, stepping toward him.

“Sorry,  _ sìthiche!” _ Ansom pushed hard into Bailey’s wounded arm, and they staggered back with a gasp, fumbling for their sap. Hip-checking Bailey into the railing, Ansom vaulted over the port side of the cutter onto the dock. As Rhen bounded for the gangplank, Ansom kicked the low end off the port. Rhen and the gangplank fell into the water with a scream and two splashes.

Ansom and his sack containing all of Rhen’s money ran off down the Fenwater business district boardwalk. Rhen scrambled onto the dock, pushing off against the untethered gangplank, and bounded after him. A trail of cold, sandy water and brackish weeds marked her passage.

They dodged through the thick morning throng of barons and investors, clients and beggars, all sweating and stinking the same in the muggy swamp air. Rhen ignored the executive purses drooping from linen pockets and plowed after Ansom. He glanced behind and met her eye, and immediately swerved left. Rhen nearly lost sight of him between the pedestrians, but--there he was, darting into an alleyway between a bank and a tailor.

Before she could rush in and corner him, Rhen was stopped by a firm hand on her shoulder. “Vi,” said John, breathless. “What the hell?”

Rhen twisted to see John, carrying all of their groceries, drenched in sweat and glaring ferociously. “He  _ stole our-- _ I don’t have time, John!”

She wrenched out of his grip and ran after Ansom. Weighed by several pounds of frozen fish, John’s arm dropped to his side.

Rhen found Ansom at the top of a precarious stack of crates and barrels leading to the roof of the tailor. Without breaking pace, she grappled a crate near the bottom and began to climb as Ansom found his feet on the roof. He set the sack of stolen money on the roof beside him and pushed the uppermost crate until it toppled gracelessly down the stack. Thinking quickly, Rhen swung like an ape from her crate to the adjacent side of the next crate up. She just barely avoided a concussion, but she didn’t waste time watching as the fallen crate burst apart on the ground below, instead reaching for the barrel above her.

As soon as her boots hit the sloped roof, Rhen was running, her hands out in front of her in case the ground grew too steep. Ansom was clearing the building ahead of her, connected to the tailor’s by two narrow planks of wood; Rhen slid down the ridge of the tailor’s roof and bounded across the shoddy bridge in seconds. His affect flat as a summer flounder, Ansom drew a dagger from his hip sheath and slung it at Rhen. It sliced through her shirt, grazing her shoulder, but Rhen only hollered in rage and surged forward. Ansom turned tail and leaped the eight feet between that roof and the next.

He changed course and ran for the row of buildings behind them. Rhen made the leap between roofs diagonally, recklessly, barely catching the eaves with her feet and swinging about wildly to regain her balance. She cursed as she sprinted towards the back of the building, keeping her eyes on Ansom and nearly missing the next jump. Her heart pummeled as she backed up and hurdled over the gap. Ignoring her trembling muscles, Rhen chased Ansom further into the forest boughs.

They skipped over roof after roof, alarming common folk who were out to do their shopping and socializing in the wood-and-water town square. The sun was almost at its noontime zenith. Fenwater church and its modest bell tower loomed ahead, separated from the commercial row by a boardwalk that led around the town and eventually out to the main road through the swamp. Ansom kept jogging forward, plunder tucked safely under his arm, and Rhen kept scrambling, sliding, leaping after him.

Without notice, he halted, turned his head, and winked at her. Then, he tucked the money between his knees, whipped off his belt, and jumped off the roof.

Rhen balked.  _ What-- _

There Ansom was, sliding down a clothesline with his belt gripped tight in each hand, clutching her winnings with his legs very much like an overlarge bird with its only egg. Rhen fumbled, unsure how to react; she had no belt (though she  _ ought _ to, as the captain, have one with an enormous buckle)--over there; there was a loose bough, it looked bendy and strong enough--she wrenched it off the tree, sprinted for the edge of the roof, and jumped, just barely catching the other end of the bough before the clothesline slipped her grasp.

Rhen’s heart hammered a thousand beats a second, but she focused on the window ahead of her and leaped in feet-first. Immediately, she heard a rush of air at her back, and just barely stepped aside before a massive kitchen knife lodged itself in the wooden window frame beside her.

“So long, songbird!” Ansom called as he dashed down the stairs.

Grinding her teeth, Rhen raced from the kitchen. She drew her rapier and took the stairs two at a time with a silent apology to her mother.

Rhen heard a door slam before she reached the bend. The landing was a musty hallway leading to several other apartments. Panicked, Rhen glanced between the doors.  _ Which-- _

A much older iron door all the way at the end of the hallway caught Rhen’s eye. She hurtled toward it and yanked it open.

The heavy door creaked as it shut behind her, its echo suggesting the size of the space Rhen just entered. The hallways in this building were dark; a room here and there hinted at a back office, a coatroom. Squinting, Rhen slowed her pace just a bit, although she didn’t lower her rapier. Ansom was nowhere to be seen or heard, but she knew he was in there.

A short flight of stairs, dimly lit, led Rhen upwards, and suddenly she found herself in the town church--nothing nearly as ostentatious as those in Thais or Sedona, and a fair bit smaller, but a church nonetheless with pews and a pulpit and everything. Light gently filtered through the poorly-washed lancet windows. The vestibule was to Rhen’s left, so she must have found a back entrance.

Ansom could be anywhere.

Rhen plucked some seaweed from her slowly-drying hair and advanced slowly, casting her eyes about the low pews. She tapped her rapier against the seats as she went.

“Looking for a fight, are you, lass?”

The taunt echoed through the entire sanctuary and rang in Rhen’s ears. She glared at the dark nothing. “If you see one, let me know!”

The reverberation of a sinister chuckle reminded Rhen of a poltergeist haunting, corrupting, this place of worship. It raised the hairs on her arms. Her eyes snapped to the vaulted ceiling, beyond the rafters, then to the little door tucked away to the left of the chancel. That was it. She dropped her shoulders and ran.

The wooden spiral staircase behind the belltower door was bound in by four walls and little else; Rhen could see the platform above and the entire sanctuary below as she hustled. She wondered for only a second why Ansom would go up to the belltower; he’d be trapped up there. Why would he force a confrontation?

As soon as Rhen reached the platform, Ansom’s boot was in her face, trying to push her back down the stairs. She grabbed his ankle and twisted him away. The bell-ringer was unconscious against one of the belfry’s corner supports, but the bell itself looked thankfully unsullied. Rhen sprang up, brandishing her rapier, and Ansom drew his own sword swift as an arrow, still clutching Rhen’s gold in his off-hand.

“Can you beat me without the chair?” purred Ansom.

With an enraged shout, Rhen jabbed forward. Ansom easily sidestepped her attack, countering for her sword-arm. She spun and ducked, aiming to trip him, but he kicked her in the chin before she knew what was happening; she bit her lip, tasting iron. Ansom slashed at her as she popped back to her feet, and she struck his sword away. They clashed, Rhen advancing. Ansom found his back to the unguarded edge of the belfry.

Rhen glared coolly. “You don’t have the space for this.”

Ansom glanced to each side, his heels flush with the platform’s edge. Suddenly, he grabbed Rhen by the upper arms and she felt herself begin to fall forwards. Panicking, she pulled her body back, and Ansom’s body with it, stepping closer to the gigantic bell behind her. Rhen softly bumped against the bell, and it hummed, low, quiet, and ominous. She shivered. If Fenwater heard the bell ring errantly, even once,  _ every _ town guard would be in the tower in an instant--and she was a pirate.

But it was nearly noon; the sun hid above the belfry canopy, no longer reflecting in Rhen and Ansom’s swords as they dueled around the bell. His defense was clunky as he grasped the sack of gold, but his offense suffered none. He swung for Rhen’s throat, and she barely parried in time, straining to push away his sword with her own. Sweating, she held her ground, desperate not to feel the empty air beneath her feet; she knew he wouldn’t fall for the same trick he used on her--

And then he backed off. Rhen immediately recovered and swung at him, but he parried with a laugh.

“And  _ you _ don’t have the time.”

With that, he dropped his sword carelessly, grabbed the bell rope, and pulled.

Rhen shrieked and covered her ears, her rapier pointing uselessly to the side. The sound was so loud she could see it, a gray checked haze blanketing everything before her with pinpricks of light. The bell-ringer’s eyes opened and he staggered to his feet, but Ansom dropped the sack and pushed the dazed man away.

Gasping, Rhen peeked out at Ansom. She tried to curse at him, but her words were lost in the drone of the bell. He was  _ still pulling; _ it had sounded like a single toll from so close, but-- _ he’s going for all twelve! _

Rhen blanched. If she tried to charge Ansom, she would get hit by the damn bell and be pitched right off the tower. Glancing at the platform, she wondered whether there would be enough space to roll under, maybe kick him off--

Snatching up the gold, Ansom paced as far back as the rope would allow him, then ran forward over the edge of the platform. With a whoop, he clung to the rope as the bell tolled its twelfth note, then let go, sailing through the air over the boardwalk. Rhen stood agape as he landed safely in the arms of a mangrove tree sheltering the buildings beyond. He shimmied down a branch, waved cheerily, and strolled off down the backside of a faraway rooftop.

The bell-ringer looked at Rhen sympathetically. “You did your best, my daughter.”

Rhen screamed.

  
  


John took first watch that night after the crew of five cast off in silence. Leslie, Bailey, and Wallace slept off a hearty meal of catfish stew belowdecks. Rhen sat on the boom, one knee hugged close to her chest, concealing her lips; the other, dangling like a loose sheet.

They kept apart for a good half hour, watching the sky darken without a word spoken between them. The ocean lapped rhythmically at the hull of the cutter, swishing and sloshing out its own personal conversation as Rhen floundered for what she wanted to say.

“Maybe I  _ have  _ been too aggressive.”

Startled, John looked at her. “What’s that, Cap’n? You’re a little muffled.”

Rhen sighed and moved her chin to rest atop her knee. “I said… maybe I’ve been a little too… I dunno… quick to pick fights, and things like that. Lately.”

John leaned back against the tiller. “Got a lot to think about right now?”

“If I hadn’t been so-- _ like that _ \--I wouldn’t have lost him, John! We would’ve caught him and we’d have a penny to shine.”

“Don’t tell me you really think that,” John chided gently.

“Of--of course I do; I was reckless and rash and not using my head.” Rhen switched knees.

“The violet I know does use her head.” John smiled. “I’d say it used to be her sharpest weapon.”

“I changed, didn’t I.”

“Do you think it’s for the worse?”

Rhen propped her forehead against her knee. “I’m driving people away.”

John furrowed his brow. He glanced at the port side of the ship, then grabbed a crate, carried it to the boom, stepped on it, and hoisted himself up to sit with his legs facing the ocean but his serious expression facing Rhen, who looked up expectantly. “You  _ have _ changed, vi,” he began, and shook a hand at her when she began to hide her face again. “But that’s normal. You’ve been through  _ so much _ . You defeated a gods-damned  _ demon lord _ and left behind an entire life that wasn’t genuinely available to you anymore. Look--when everything,  _ everything _ around you changes, you’re gonna change, too.” He smiled. “It’s inevitable.”

Rhen broke eye contact. “But I don’t like who I am now.”

“It’s not gonna be quick or easy. You have to hammer out the details. No ship builds itself.”

"You don't understand. I can't  _ stand  _ myself right now." Rhen swallowed. "I want to disappear."

“If you won’t forgive yourself, I’ll do it for you.”

They were quiet for a while, John swinging his legs slowly, Rhen not looking at him. She thought about the past day, everyone she alienated, every time she could have stuck closer rather than pushing out on her own. Shame pressed down on her spine.

“I--I just could have  _ prevented  _ all of this; I’m sure of it, somehow--”

John rolled his eyes. “Probably not. Ansom… he’s… he’s like that.”

"He's  _ like that?"  _ Rhen snapped out of her self-pity for a second.

"Yeah. Just as many times as I've crashed a boat or been marooned on a deserted island, Ansom's sabotaged a boat or marooned someone, or… well, general hijinks, I guess."

"You call that 'hijinks'?" scoffed Rhen.

"We're pirates, violet. What do pirates do?"

"Okay, and you've experienced this firsthand?"

John sighed. "I can't say this is the first time Ansom McCrae's screwed me."

Rhen let her legs hang loose from the yard, adjusting her position. "But you wanted him on the crew so badly! Did he charm you that easily?”

“I guess so.”

“I knew you were a soft-hearted swab, John.” Rhen relaxed against the mast. “I didn’t think you’d let someone like that hornswaggle you just because you were mates once.”

“Mm.”

John looked back out to sea, his eyepatch facing Rhen, hiding much of his face. The moon emerged from a downy bed of clouds, casting the cutter with a soft glow. Pursing his lips in thought, John looked for a moment like a man Rhen hadn’t met.

“Vi.”

“What?”

John turned back to face Rhen, the creases around his mouth twitching in and out of view. “Have you ever noticed that one of my eyebrows is thicker than the other?”

Rhen was taken aback. She leaned in to peer at his face. “No, but… I…  _ guess _ so, now that you mention it.”

“The eyepatch hides it well, huh?” John smiled toothily and scooted a little closer. “Anyway, there’s a story about that. I must have been… twenty-two or so, on this ship called  _ The Merry Magpie. _ Ansom was there, too. Everyone was your standard pirate; backstabbing, devious, self-serving scallywags. The captain was pretty lax about grog onboard, and sometimes we collectively ran three sheets to the wind.”

“You  _ drank?” _

“Yeah; I wasn’t always so straitlaced. So one night, the magpies got merry, and one of them--” John tapped his nose “--fell asleep on the stairs to the forecastle deck.”

Rhen suppressed a giggle trying to picture John drunk.

“As far as I’m aware, Ansom found me first, but he didn’t exactly help me out of there.” John scooted closer again. “He found Radhiya, the ship’s surgeon, who’d been a tattooist on shore. They gathered a little crowd and decided what to do with me, and this was it.”

John leaned all the way in to Rhen, and she leaned in, too, and squinted--and then she noticed, stretched to fit just above his right eyebrow, a black-ink rendering of the word “TOOL”.

She sat up. “They all did that to you?”

He nodded. “Yep! Pretty funny, right?”

“Are you _ joking?” _ Rhen’s jaw fell open. “That’s  _ horrible! _ That’s there  _ forever! _ They crossed a line, all of them!”

“Ahh, whatever.” John shrugged it off, looking back to the ocean. “It’s done now. Point is… I let my guard down around these people I didn’t really know, even after numerous warning signs that they weren’t trustworthy. That’s on me.”

Rhen twisted a lock of her hair. “I don’t understand how you can be so relaxed about something like that.”

“I don’t know, vi.” John sniffed. “Maybe we just have to learn from each other.”

“You should get mad at someone every once in a while,” said Rhen. “It’s good for you.”

“You think so?”

They both laughed quietly, the sound lost in the enormity of the sapphire sky.

“Well, anyway,” said John. “That’s why I don’t drink anymore.”

Rhen nodded and propped her foot back up on the yard. They stared back out at the ocean, contemplating in peaceful silence. She glanced back at John once or twice. His face looked intent and a little tight, as if he was considering something he hadn’t given the time of day, perhaps even something he’d avoided.

A larger wave swayed the cutter, splashing gaily against its hull. Rhen glanced out past the bow to check the horizon; thankfully, it still looked calm. The ocean’s enormity was lost on her now that she’d been sailing as long as she had, but it was always striking to consider just how much of it still lay beyond her field of vision. Resting her cheek in her hand, she wondered whether Ansom was out there, far away at sea with her money.

_ He’d better spend it on something good. _


End file.
